Romeo declares the bitter end

is written in the stars–
pauses, squints into the sun.
Benvolio cocks his head.
Everyone laughs.
 
Juliet insists it is not day.
Crickets and airplanes and her frantic voice
sing with desperation into a stifling dusk.
It is not day, but no chuckle
lifts the weight of the sky.
 
Someone ought to have warned him,
I think, watching the bodies stiffen.
But in truth, the audience does not care
if he was right. Romeo must meet Juliet.
Their tragedy was parting when the day came.
 
At least the corpses were intertwined,
the audience whispers.
They leave the amphitheatre regretful, content,
complacent in the destruction.